Real Stars Dying
by Dollfayce
Summary: Violet and Olaf, talking on the boat, before it all goes down. So to speak. VioletxOlaf.


AN/Intro. My first fanfic, kiddos. And not just ASOUE, I mean ever. I never thought I would give in, but that wretched wretched thirteenth book! Couldn't help it. Never thought my maiden voyage, so to speak, would be freaky Violaf fluff.

Because, everyone loves a good Faux!Violaf story. Or at least I do. But then again, my tastes are admittedly perverse.

Here's something that might have happened on that boat, at the beginning, before everything went crazy-friggin-mad.

(Oh! And! Whatever, disclaimer, don't own any of this, although I wish I did own Olaf because HOW fun would that be?! Seriously, guys.)

REAL STARS DYING

Violet was watching the sky. Dreaming, maybe. She gave a little gasp of surprise. Lovely! A silver steely streak against the otherwise unforgiving black oil palette of night sky.

A shooting star. You were allowed to wish on shooting stars. She remembered that much from whatever was left of her childhood. Even if they weren't really stars, and even if wishes never came true. No one could stop you. And you could really see the whole sky full of stars, out in the middle of the sea, in their little boat. She tried to make a wish—but realized she didn't know what to wish for, other than an end to all this. It was a troubling thought, and she would keep it to herself, alone in her starlight vigil.

It was not a large boat, was the recently re-christened Count Olaf. It was not a comfortable boat. It was not a dry boat, or a pleasant boat, or really any sort of a boat you'd want to be on in the best of circumstances. Much less sharing with three other people—two siblings and a notorious villain. So, although Violet was exhausted, it wasn't so surprising that she couldn't sleep. Rather, she was marveling at the relative peace the slumbering Klaus and Sunny seem to have found under the circumstances.

She wished _she _could fall asleep too, if only to forget for a few hours.

The two younger Baudelaires were curled up on the far side of the boat, calm and quiet in the pleasantly cool nighttime. The moonlight glinted occasionally off Klaus's glasses, folded safely in the arm not wrapped protectively around Sunny. The soft ocean salt-breeze wound gentle through her sister's pale hair. Violet had sat up, propped herself against the side, and watched them silently for some minutes. It was by far not the first time she had watched her siblings find some measure of peace in their dreams and wish…well, wish things could have been…but that never helped anything, did it?

It never helped anything. Stupid Violet. Stupid little girl. She laughed, quiet and dark and sad, and buried her face in her folded arms.

"Something funny, orphan?" someone wheezed from her left. Violet closed her eyes tighter. She almost didn't answer. He was, as always, interrupting, and as always was insinuating himself into a perfectly decent moment. But she had learned from hard experience that the last thing that would make Olaf go away was ignoring him.

"No, Olaf," she said flatly. "Not at all. _So _sorry if I woke you up."

"But you were _laughing_," he said. She heard him pull himself up from where he had been lying, to sit beside her against the wall. Obviously he wanted to talk. He did so love talking. And she did so despise it when he did so. Which, Violet suspected, only encouraged him.

She was correct. When she refused to answer and instead continued to regard her siblings, he cozied his bony self closer. "I would so love to know what would make a pretty little orphan like you laugh loud enough to wake me up from my hard earned sleep…"

Violet glared at him. "I did no such thing! And hard earned? All you've done is--!" she snapped, realizing too late that such a reaction was exactly what he wanted. She glared anew at him, and he laughed at her.

"Such a nasty angry girl!" he sighed. A pause, as their eyes met, acid black and crystal blue. It turned, unwarranted, into an awkward sort of pause, until Olaf suavely decided to add, in a confiding sort of tone, "No wonder your parents decided to check out early. I wouldn't want to spend any more time with you than I had to, either."

Violet swallowed. She could not pretend that this didn't sting. But she also refused to play Olaf's games any longer. Or, at least, to let him win. They were both, as he had said, in the same boat now. "You know, Olaf," she said. "For someone who doesn't want to spend any time with me, you sure do spend an awful lot of effort chasing after me." She grinned horribly at him. "Seems like with all those other rich kids there'd be a lot of other fires to start. Parents to kill."

It had an unanticipated effect. Olaf's face darkened and he scowled, yes, but there was no retort, no anger. Instead, he looked harshly at her for a moment, grabbed her arm closest to him, and said in a low whisper, "You know nothing, little girl." They stayed for a moment like this, her in surprise, him experiencing something unknown to Violet, until he sharply released her, and turned again to face the sea.

Violet followed suit, letting the ink black waves roll frigid and soothing under her gaze. She wished, again, that she had any idea what he was talking about. She wondered if she would ever know.

As if in response to the chill between the man and the girl, the wind picked up with an obnoxious insistent sort of howl, making the girl, at least, shiver.

"Are you cold?" Olaf asked, with what Violet thought was uncharacteristic tenderness. He had been surprising them, lately, with an annoyingly human side. She wished she could understand him—not that it would justify anything, but it would just make her world easier to live in, somehow. Simpler, maybe.

"Yes," she answered. "Yes, I'm freezing."

"Too bad!" he cried happily. "Teach you to wear that ridiculous concierge outfit, won't it?"

Although this shouldn't have been totally surprising, she couldn't help but turn to him, slightly aghast. He was sneering cheerfully at her—shivering just as much too, she noticed to her satisfaction. And then she laughed, genuinely. "Yes, you're right!" she said.

His sneer faded to confusion. "I am?"

"Absolutely! What was I thinking! I should have worn a stylish suit like you did!"

"Well, yes. Yes, you should have." He was smiling reluctantly now too, and it wasn't one of his frightening shiny hungry ones.

"You'll certainly be the man I ask for advice next time I burn down a hotel…" she tried to continue in her jest, but then her voice caught in her throat, as she realied what she was saying. Because it wasn't a joke. Not that. She _had _burned down a hotel. She _had _caused the death of many, many people—including Dewey. She _had _lied and she _had _run away and she _had _lost her parents and she _had _lost everyone and everything dear in spite of everything…!

"Olaf!" she whispered. "How did this happen…?!" There was no time for animosity and pretense now—she needed to know, and he was the only one who could tell her, and anyway she was too tired to calculate at the moment.

"How did…how did what happen, exactly?" The Count was a little disarmed by her apparent candor.

She leaned her head back on the hard planks of the boat's wall. She wished he would understand.

"Everything. All of this." A less desperate thought struck. "Why are you here with us? Why are you always here with us?" A pause, as she considered what she was really thinking. "With me?

"With you?" He snorted. "Don't be so egotistical, little girl. I'm far more important and attractive than you could ever be. The very thought that I would ever--"

"Right, okay," she said, impatient. She wished he could just pay attention for _once_. "Granted," she drawled, "but that doesn't answer my question."

"Yes it does," he insisted, but it didn't seem his weird little heart was in it. This was encouraging. Perhaps with her siblings asleep—especially Klaus—he didn't feel the need to put on such a show, as was his wont. He did always seem to be some odd sort of honest with her. She supposed—heh—that marriage did that to a couple. Or something.

"Why are you always chasing me?" she tried again. "I'm not that stupid. It's not just because of my money."

He didn't answer for a moment, and Violet thought she had failed. But then he said, softly, "No. It's not."

"Then why, Olaf? I don't understand!"

"No, of course you don't," he retorted. "You never will. You're a stupid ignorant brat. But—" and his voice was quiet again, and this was a chilling echo of their time in the hotel, "you don't see—what else can I do?"

She wished she could speak, to draw him out, but he seemed lost in thought—until suddenly he turned to face her fully. He was very close.

"Tell me," she said, urgent.

"No," he said. "It's none of your business."

"_Please._"

He laughed—a humorless rasp. "See, there you go again." Olaf adjusted his position, so they found themselves closer now, touching. She wondered if he had done this on purpose to…annoy her…but he was continuing. "It all has to do with what you never, never seem to understand, _Violet_," he hissed. The guilty thrill as he spoke her name, combined with his proximity, almost disgusted her to the point where she missed his words—almost. "That this world is a dark and frightening place. That if you don't protect yourself, no one will. That the only people who really suffer are the innocent—if there are any innocent, which I doubt—and that love will never triumph, and you will always be alone, and in the end, the dark—will always—win." He was smiling as he said this, but she wondered how amused he really was. He turned his gaze to the dark night sky, and she couldn't help but follow him. "Always."

As if to spite him: a shooting star. Breaking the tension. Lighting the sky, if only briefly. Ruining his point, or so she thought. They both laughed softly.

"Or not," she said hopefully. "Make a wish, Olaf," she added, feeling suddenly generous. "I've already had one tonight. Just," and she giggled, "don't wish for my money, because, well, you know."

He looked back at her, very seriously. "Don't be so stupid, Violet." Olaf's teeth flashed bright like a wolf's as he smiled. And this was one of his hungry smiles. "That's a star dying. It's not even a star, really—but it's still dying. Burning, scorching, hurtling into the bleak abyss of nothing, sort of thing, you know. Doesn't seem like something a girl like you would want to celebrate."

She tried to hold his gaze—she wished she could have, she wished she could have been stronger. But she thought of how dark and cold it was, and how that's what death was like, and all of a sudden it was too much.

Violet started crying, softly. For the star. For her parents. For what she had become. For everything.

She couldn't help it. She wished he hadn't have said that.

"Is that all there is, in the end?" she asked. "Darkness?"

"And anything you can keep to fill it. But mostly darkness, yes."

"I don't want it to be like that!" Violet felt petulant, like a child, but really, when you're completely powerless how else can you feel?

So quietly, almost so she couldn't hear him—she got the feeling she wasn't supposed to—"Me neither, Violet."

He did speak louder though, so she could hear him. "This isn't a secret, you know. I've been telling you orphans this since I met you. I told your miserable parents. No one ever believes me. And that's why it goes so badly for them."

"I don't believe you, Olaf. There are good people out there. There are bright spots out there—"

"Violet," he interrupted. She stopped. "Look at me," he said, and she obeyed. She was trembling, to her surprise. If he noticed, maybe he would think it was shivering. "Look at me," he repeated, cruelly, "and say that like you believe it."

She stared at him, hard and hateful, wished she could. Oh how she wished she could. But of course she couldn't.

He smiled. "I knew it." His heart, though, did not seem to be in it.

And neither one of them could seem to look away.

She examined this man—this man who had chased her and hounded her and hurt her and caressed her. This man who _haunted_ her—both her waking life and her darkest dreamtimes. This man who was always present in her life and seemed like he would be for the rest of her life—even if he died, he would always be in the back of her mind. Some cruel dark clawing ghost in her conscience.

The, for lack of a better word, man in her life.

His hawk-features and invasive gaze softened strangely—whether in thought, or under scrutinization, or something else, she was uncertain.

"Olaf," she said, and for some dark reason it felt good saying his name. "I'm very, very cold."

"Of course you are. Get used to it," he grumbled, but something strange happened—and—it was what she had been wishing for, all along somewhere in some wretched broken part of her mind she hadn't known existed.

He leaned back and held out a long spider arm, which she obediently crawled under. Somehow, since he was the only one trying to harm her, (nobody else even cared that much, perversely enough,) she knew he was the only one she could trust. She didn't even want to cry anymore—the impulse was gone. Dead. Like…like so many other things, really. Violet buried her face in his narrow chest, and listened to heartbeats, and let her decidedly ribbonless hair be stroked, and thought about wishing, and wishes being granted, and nothing at all. And him. The safer cold—the darkness she knew, and had never wished for more.

And they held each other, to ward off the cold and the terrible night and the Something else that they both feared so much, and dealt with so differently.

Violet wondered, wildly, hilariously, if she should kiss him…

If Klaus had any questions about sleeping arrangements when he awoke, and the sun was up and the desperate dark had been staved off for a few hours longer, once more, he had the decorum not to mention it. He trusted his sister. He kept telling himself that.

After all, all Klaus had ever wished for was for everyone to be happy. Too bad he had missed all the real stars dying the last night—he might have done something about it.


End file.
